


Sayya'd

by traveller



Series: Sayya'd [2]
Category: Arthurian Mythology, King Arthur (2004)
Genre: M/M, Pre-Canon
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2004-08-02
Updated: 2004-08-02
Packaged: 2017-10-15 14:13:04
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,341
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/161617
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/traveller/pseuds/traveller
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p><cite>On the fifth day, a hawk lights on the freshly turned earth of Dinidan's burial mound and Tristan, on his knees for four days, watches it with wary eyes.</cite></p>
            </blockquote>





	Sayya'd

On the fifth day, a hawk lights on the freshly turned earth of Dinadan's burial mound and Tristan, on his knees for four days, watches it with wary eyes. He can no longer tell the difference between spirit and flesh; perhaps it is a shade come to taunt him. He did see a woman, that morning, washing blood from her hands with a rag of white cloth. She sang as she washed, a high sweet song, but when he called out to her she faded from his sight.

"What do you want?" he rasps. His voice is dust-dry. The bird snaps its beak once, twice – not a phantom, then. Tristan narrows his eyes. "Off with you. The meat here is already dead."

The hawk spreads its wings and resettles them; their eyes meet for a long time, too long perhaps, and when it perches on his wrist for the first time, its talons draw blood.

Tristan licks at the wounds when the hawk flies, rising up to spiral in the pale sky above. He bows down and presses a bloody kiss to the ground. "There's work to be done," he says to the earth, to the bones beneath it.

He leaves his armour, he leaves his boots; he needs only his eyes, his body, his blade for hunting.

::

He learned silence as a child, learned that a man is measured first by his deeds and last by his words. He was neither the youngest nor the oldest of their number so that did not distinguish him; he had not the quick wit of Lancelot or the fair face of Galahad or the thick-armed strength of Dagonet. But he could ride without saddle or bridle and his horse never once unsat him; his arrows never missed their mark. He didn't speak because he had nothing to say that his feet and hands could not say better.

The others didn't understand him when he spoke anyway. Their dialect was from the south, the west; he was picking it up quickly, as well as the Latin which Arthur and the soldiers spoke. But Bors said his accent was foreign, maybe not Sarmatae at all. That exchange ended with Tristan spitting blood, although not his own, and Bors admitting that while Tristan might be a foreign bastard, you had to respect a man who had his knee on your throat and his blade on your balls.

Dinadan came some few moons after Tristan's arrival at the fort, a warrior bright and bold and loud. They did not either one know the other's face, but knew the markings well enough: they were of the same band, shared the same tongue and the same gods. He nodded at his countryman, and bent his head again to his blade-keeping.

"Who is that?" he heard the new rider ask, and felt all eyes turn toward him.

"Tristan," Bors answered loudly, and swilled from his flagon. "One of your lot, isn't he?"

Dinadan nodded, and his eyes flashed in the torchlight. Tristan tried to remember what three lines, angled so, meant in their skin-writing.

When Dinadan crossed the room with long strides, hands held out in greeting, Bors shouted after him, "Careful of Tristan. He bites."

Dinadan laughed, a rich music, and called back over his shoulder, "So do I!" Tristan, startled, laughed as well; the sound was worn and frayed but true.

They were two to a room in those days, each chamber with pairs of low pallets covered in furs and coarsely woven rugs. But already some of the younger men had fallen, so Tristan had a bed to offer the newcomer, his tribesman. The peat in the brazier smoked badly but it offered warmth enough, so Tristan pulled it closer to his pallet and they sat with their feet tucked under themselves, holding their hands toward the flame.

They sat together in kinship until they heard the first birds sing, Dinadan talked and Tristan answered his questions when he could force a word in betweens. It seemed he'd forgotten more than he realized, more words of their language, more of the land and the gods and their people, but Dinadan didn't seem to care. He profaned the gods freely, damned them and the Romans alike, all with a bright wicked smile.

They fell asleep for a short while in the pale early dawn, curled together under Tristan's rough blanket. Dinadan warmed his hands in Tristan's tunic and Tristan dreamed of home.

::

Dinadan used to fuck him on his back, like a woman, and at first Tristan was ashamed, turned his head into the furs and tried to hide his eyes. But Dinadan kissed him as he did it, moving slowly and with great care. He kissed him and stroked his face; he said things in their own language, words that were all but meaningless except there, in the dark.

"No one mates for love," Tristan said one night, as he traced the black lines down Dinadan's back. He could not see them, the rushlight had burned too low, but he knew every mark with complete certainty.

Dinadan nodded and agreed, but then he turned and he caught Tristan's wrist. "No," he answered, "our kind mate for life."

::

 

They were never truly at their ease. They could be dispatched again before even leaving the field, roused from their beds at any hour to ride out in any weather. But there were times when the hourglass seemed to flow more slowly. Fucking was like that, like healing: it was night work, almost toil if not for the care in it.

They would take it in turns to mend each other's hurts, bathing the gashes with vinegar and sealing them with honey. The lighter wounds they left to the air, but the deepest cuts wanted stitching. Dinadan threaded a fine bone needle and knelt over Tristan, pinching closed the edges of the spear slash on his shoulder.

Though he whimpered like a wounded animal, tears running down his face, Tristan did not cry out, he would not cry out, and only sunk his teeth deep into a thick strap of leather. Dinadan made a soft noise and pressed a warm palm to the back of Tristan's neck before resuming his work.

Dinadan held him down with his weight, because Tristan couldn't help but fight a little as it went on, when the bone pierced his skin, when the thread, the finest that the village women spun, drew through. The flames from the brazier made shadows dance on the wall in nauseating patterns; Tristan closed his eyes and bit down harder. He could feel sweat running down his neck, over his shoulders, half from the heat and half from the pain. It mingled with the blood and burned in the gash.

"Shit," Dinadan said when his fingers slipped and skin tore; Tristan gasped and crushed his scream against his fist. "No, I'm sorry." Dinadan's voice trembled like his hands.

Tristan shook his head and bit back the vomit. "Finish it."

Still it took a long time before it was done, and then Dinadan stretched out at Tristan's side, and they were alike sweat-damp and pale.

Later, after they had rested, Dinadan would rouse Tristan and they would fuck, heavy with sleep and the heat of the night. Dinadan would bow his head, face covered by the tangled fall of his hair, and speak softly of home while he moved inside Tristan's body. Tristan would moan out his release, muffled in the curve of Dinadan's neck.

But first they slept, curved together, blades at rest.

::

On the fifth day he goes bootless, like his enemies, through the glades. He follows their pale footprints and hunts them to their sleeping places. He cuts them down while they slumber; to those who wake and battle back he does not grant mercy, but takes his time to spill their blood.

He leaves a path of red through the blue and green forest, paints his warning on the trees with the letters of his mother tongue.


End file.
